


Various Fics

by network



Category: Destiny (Video Games), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human AU, Gen, M/M, Mostly 2017 stuff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, So be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 04:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18189815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/network/pseuds/network
Summary: Does what it says on the tin. Various oneshots & unfinished fics of varying quality. I might pick some of these back up again, but I thought I should store them here for safe keeping.





	1. System

System doesn’t check his chronometer. He knows what day it is.

Really, it was just another day down here. Nobody in the underworld celebrated Empire Day – most people couldn’t care less about who was in charge, and those that did weren’t imps, at least not here. While he could imagine the false celebrations happening above, for System it was a day of mourning. Five years ago – five years ago he’d lost it all.

But he can’t ignore his duties forever – someone else needs the assistance of System, the infamous bounty hunter, and they need the money. So he ignores the gaping hole in the Force, and the tension in his heart, and sets off into the dawn.

\---

One of the first things System picked up on in the underworld was the lack of sunlight - it had jarred him at first, and to a point it continued to - as a person that had grown up on a planet with two suns, and then in an environment with access to the open skies, the permanent dusk of the lower levels took a lot of adjusting to. Unable to rely on sunlight as an indicator for daylight cycles, System had often found himself stark awake in the dead of night, neon lights imprinting themselves into his retinas, and shouts from the seedy clubs below echoing around his head.

On nights like that, he would often find himself sobbing before he’d even realize it himself, unable to hide his thoughts behind his jobs. They’d call to him – all the voices of people he’d failed, of the Jedi that had died because he hadn’t noticed the signs earlier, because he hadn’t thought Palpatine of being capable of what he was implying. Sure, he’d saved a handful of younglings, but it was never enough for the voices. He could’ve saved them all – not just some children that will now live in fear for the rest of their lives, confined to a dingy apartment in the underworld when they could be so much more.

On nights like that, he’d hear his mother’s voice, his first failure. << _“Why did you let me die, Ani?”_ >>. She’d always say it in her beautiful, calm voice. There was no venom there, no hate there, just a question. Then the air would shift, and he would hear the cries of his wife, calling out his name, over and over. He’d failed her too – the Empire had found them, he hadn’t protected her enough. She died in his arms, just like his mother had.

He wouldn’t stop sobbing until he’d hear the soft _pitter patter_ of his children’s feet, as they would look up at their father with sad little faces. He’d hoist them up onto the bed, sing them melodies in a shaky voice until they’d drift off. He’d look down on his children, his beautiful twins, as his tears would dry up, and a small smile would grace his face.

This was one such night - he had just returned his children to their bedroom, and was silently returning to his own room, when he heard his comm ring. It was only a soft buzz; nothing too urgent, so System fixes his mask over his eyes before accepting the call.

A blue bust appears, the dark cloak obscuring any distinguishable features; a norm for System's clients.

 _"You are the bounty hunter they call System, correct?"_ The voice has an air of authority but it isn't difficult for System to feel their apprehension. This interests System immediately - he isn't used to people being afraid of him - perhaps if they knew his real identity - but not as a faceless bounty hunter.

His artificially deepened voice mutters an affirmative response, before questioning the caller on what exactly they need - nobody calls him without needing something, whether it be an item stolen or a person assassinated. His line of work pushes him dangerously close to the dark side, especially for someone so precariously trying to balance the two sides within, but it's not like he has a choice. He needs the credits, and so do his charges, perhaps even more than him. With the money he earns he can move them closer and closer to the surface - not too close mind you; low enough to not be recognized or reported, but high enough to have some feeling of stability and security.

 _"This connection is not secure enough."_ Is their simple reply, and it isn't too shocking or inconvenient for him - many of his clients, especially high-profile ones, will meet him in person to discuss details without any prying ears intercepting incriminating messages. The client tells him the time and place before stopping the connection.

Running over the details in his mind, System remembers a bar, not far from his apartment, that the person apparently wants to meet at. It's slightly disturbing how easily he runs over the path to it in his head; in the first month or two after the purges he'd visited it a lot, drinking away the memories of their deaths, all the deaths, the emptiness of the force from the deaths but also the screams cut too short and left too long ringing out in the force. Those weeks were the hardest, when he blamed himself for every blaster bolt and youngling not saved by another like him, when he blamed himself for not paying more heed to what happened to Fives, when he blamed himself for not doing what was impossible; what he knew was impossible but tried to do anyway.

When he'd accepted that he couldn't save them all was when he found what he could do; he had a handful of younglings following him; a new generation of Jedi to fix what the old had failed to. And he had his children; two beautiful babies, full of joy and bent on bringing it; two beacons of light in the Force, shining and lighting up the darkest times. Tears well up in his eyes and he blinks them away. "Back to the mission." He chides himself mentally. "Think later, fight now."

He leaves his room, walking silently through the dated hallway until he reaches the living room; he then takes a book on the different lightsaber forms and opens it to page 23, leaving it face down on the kitchen counter, a simple way of telling the kids that he's going out, so they don't have to worry about his whereabouts when they start to awaken.

Leaving the apartment, he follows his mental map down to the bar, easily dodging the vendors as they aggressively market their goods, pulling himself into focus as he reaches the entrance. He physically recoils – just a bit - when he enters the room, senses briefly overloaded before adjusting to the too loud music, too many perfumes, too many people, too many lights, too much everything. He avoids the crowded areas, before his eyes settle on a black-cloaked person - human, or extremely humanoid; he sees no sign of any lekku or montrals - sprawled across a booth sofa in an almost cocky fashion. Another figure sits beside him, once again wrapped and hooded in a dark material, legs pulled up to their chest and tanned chin resting on his knees.

The larger figure looks up as soon as System lays eyes on them, and that's a good enough indication to him that this is his client. He heads over, sliding in across the table and leaning back into the other booth sofa. The older person begins to speak as the younger looks up, deep blue eyes piercing into his.

"I'm Kanan Jarrus, and this" he nods towards the younger figure "is Ezra Bridger. We need your help, Master Skywalker."


	2. The Traveler's Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit i've been looking for this lmao. Cayde/Zavala, post D2 AU

It’s just another morning when Zavala wakes, a soft beam of warm light finding it’s way through his closed eyelids to softly nudge him into consciousness. The room is pleasantly warm – the kind of warmth that’s _just right_ , not too warm or cool. It’s the kind of warmth that reminds Zavala of the older times – what he can remember of the golden age not lost to his rebirth – of blue skies and new horizons, of hope and peace. It’s the kind of warmth that reminds him of home, of the soft weight pressed against his chest, gently snorin-.

Exos don’t snore.

This realization jolts Zavala fully awake, mind racing at hundreds of miles a second, frantically trying to make sense of the situation. What had he done? Zavala has no idea _how_ this person got here, into his bed, but it can’t bode well for him at all. Cayde trusts him – how could he have done this, how could he have betrayed his sort-of boyfriend this much? He feels his pulse slowing as he calms himself, attempting to rationalise what had happened.

Once in a semi-stable mindset, Zavala takes the time to properly look at his… companion. He’s a human male, about Zavala’s height and slightly thinner, with pale skin and jet black hair. Two pink-ish scars cross his right eye, and dry lips rest open. If it wasn’t for this… _situation_ , Zavala would consider the man to be very attractive, but that’s beside the point. He tries to come up with some solution – some way to fix whatever the hell he’s done now, but all thoughts of possible solutions and detailed plans fly out the window when the person beside him starts to stir. His mind starts to freeze up, and so does his body, as his bedmate stretches, eyes opening to reveal a startling blue. And Zavala _knows_ those eyes. Sure, they’re usually bright optics tinted a pale blue, but that likeness has, somehow, transferred itself over to this man’s eyes.

“Zav? What’r- what’re you staring at?” He begins, speech stuttered by his attempts to hold back a yawn that eventually breaks through at the end of his sentence. That yawn, however, stops Cayde in his tracks. He slowly raises his hand – a hand usually formed from cool steel and warm leather – that is now _human_ to tentatively brush his facial features, tracing over the twin scars and stopping at his hairline, at the feeling of soft hair. “ _Holy hell_.” He mutters, holding out his hand as if to confirm that it’s actually there. Cayde’s eyes drift to Zavala’s own, which meet eachother in a confused, silent question. “ _What the hell happened?_ ”.

Cayde stands from the bed, sheets peeling back to reveal a black tank-top and sweats covering the same pale _human_ body, and stands in front of the full length mirror, still staring, unbelieving, at his own reflection, while Zavala approaches from behind, carefully reaching out to softly brush the side of his pale forearm. “I’ll admit.. I’m certainly not complaining.” He admits, wrapping an arm around the other’s waist, and settling it there, while Cayde leans back into him.

“Yeah, neither am I.” He replies, before a grin spreads across his face. “I forgot how bloody hot I used to be.” Zavala shakes his head slightly, a _(fondly}_ disapproving expression crossing his face.

“We’re going to need to explain this to Ikora somehow.” Zavala reminds him, and Cayde sighs dramatically.

“Yeah, but we can think about that later. For now… well we have a bit of time to kill.” He implies, twisting around in Zavala’s hold to look up at the slightly taller male. “Why not help me get _reacquainted_ with this body?”


End file.
